Marcus closed his eyes at the whisper of pain,

and rattled a sword at that old ghost, Migraine,

he heard a distant sweet and mournful refrain –

it seemed like a clear violin’s soft strain.

With eyes tightly shut, he opened them and looked around

He was standing in what seemed to be a carnival ground.

Again he heard the gentle and melancholy sound,

So he walked to see just where the music could be found.

There was a carousel of bright horses, paint peeling but still gay,

And tables for chatting, or for chess where people could play,

The scent of his favourite foods wafted across his way,

And in a plane tree twinkling lanterns the gentle breeze did sway.

The music grew clearer and Marcus could see people dance,

When he moved closer to  try and get a clearer glance.

He saw a shirt-and-bowtied Labrador (only sycophants

Would dare to put a Labrador in a pair of formal pants)

Accompanying a short woman, playing clear and true.

A friendly man beside him said: “we’ve arranged this for you –

(confidentially) from the dust blown off that violin a tornado grew,

But we turned it into butterflies of coral, turquoise and blue.”

As the people danced reels and swayed to sweet, sadder tunes, 

Marcus asked: “What is this place?” and they said: “La Lune

Bleu.  It’s a safe place in a mad world, it’s a momentary boon,

And it’s secret: you  can only visit on each alternate blue moon”.